Memories of Syria

Upon one of my numerous visits to the mosque of Sheikh Muhiyidin Ibn Arabi, I made the acquaintance of a striking elder by the name of Abu Muhammad. His name, which literally translated indicates that he is the ‘father of Muhammad’, is a perfect expression of anonymity. On those rare occasions in which he enters my thoughts, I like to consider his name as some profound expression of spirituality, that his desired obscurity was the result of some yearning to renounce the trappings of the ephemeral world, and embrace the ancient existence of an unknown dervish. Yet almost certainly nearer the truth is that in modern Syria, if often pays to remain unidentified. I was blessed by his company on a number of occasions, and we often engaged in a stuttering, graceless, yet well intentioned conversation that was to repeat itself (in form) at numerous junctures during my time in Syria. His face truly was alight with faith, and he wore the genuine smile of a man whose existence was good. We shared no language, yet meaning weaved its way through the language barrier. Whilst we addressed each other, he would gently rub my back in a circular motion, which seemed to slowly extinguish anxiety and unease from my heart. I remember his regular reminders to contact my parents, and his elaborate gestures that prompted me to recall the narration of the Prophet Muhammad (saws) that paradise lies under the feet of the mothers. He showed great pride in me to his acquaintances in the mosque, informing them that I was British and had been blessed with the honour of Islam. On one of the final occasions that I saw him, I discretely placed into his aged hand a crumpled 500 Lira note, the value of which is less than £10. His faced displayed a curious mixture of gratitude, disinterest and concern, and when reading his eyes I could see he feared that I would mentally reduce his generosity and kindness to the pursuit of wealth. So many in Damascus developed relationships for the sake of personal gain, yet he was truly concerned that his personal gain would negate the purity of our relationship. His warmth and unadulterated gentleness left a mark in my heart, and I can only endeavour to live up to his noble example.

I had been advised by numerous acquaintances that I should visit the grave of Sheikh Muhiyidin Ibn Arabi (God be pleased with him), who is afforded the honorific title of ‘The Greatest Teacher’ by those who pursue the path of Islamic spirituality. The mosque itself marks the end of the raucous Friday Market, in the locality that bears the name of the Sheikh. Less than 200 metres from the building which houses the Sheikh’s tomb, Suzuki pick-up trucks pollute the air with the sound of gruesome reeds and over enthusiastic singers, masquerading as music that blasts from self-installed speaker systems. The district is found on the south side of the Qasiyoun Mountain, and marks the beginning of the steep incline towards the summit. Hence, locals and tourists alike employ the petite yet vigorous Suzukis to deliver them to locations higher up the mountain. Some commentators advocate that Qasiyoun is referred to in the Holy Qur’an, and a level of Divine protection is evidently felt by the Suzuki drivers, who seem to negotiate corners and slopes absolutely assured of their safety. The market offers a variety of wares, from household appliances to vegetables, cheap plastic toys to fresh olives. Directly outside the mosque, young men donning traditional jalabeas sell sunglasses and other treasures from wheeled stalls, vigilantly keeping watch for police inspectors. Should a shopkeeper notice the presence of such an inspector, a frantic yelp echoes down the market, and the young stall owners hysterically wheel their goods into side streets and preconceived hiding places, all with a sense of good humoured jest. Yet the consequences for shopkeepers selling illegally are often devoid of humour, as the arbitrary confiscation of goods and hefty fines are not uncommon. There is a certain coarseness to the people who frequent the market, and a teenage bravado seems to dictate the manners of the overly gelled young men who gather in the vicinity. In the summer, the market exudes a balmy, exciting air, whilst the winter brings a sense of desperation at the onset of the overwhelming cold.